Boors. Hold, hold.

Ger. Lay on still, Down with that Gentleman rogue, swinge him to sirrup.  Retire Sir, and take Breath:  follow, and take him, Take all, ’tis lawful prize.

Boors. We yield.

Ger. Down with ’em Into the Wood, and rifle ’em, tew ’em, swinge ’em, Knock me their brains into their Breeches. [Exeunt.

Boors. Hold, hold.

Gos. What these men are I know not, nor for what cause
They shou’d thus thrust themselves into my danger,
Can I imagine.  But sure Heavens hand was in’t! 
Nor why this coward Knave should deal so basely
To eat me up with Slaves:  but Heaven I thank thee,
I hope thou hast reserv’d me to an end
Fit for thy creature, and worthy of thine honour: 
Would all my other dangers here had suffered,
With what a joyful heart should I go home then? 
Where now, Heaven knows, like him that waits his sentence,
Or hears his passing Bell; but there’s my hope still.

Enter Gerrard.

Ger. Blessing upon you Master.

Gos. Thank ye; leave me, For by my troth I have nothing now to give thee.

Ger. Indeed I do not ask Sir, only it grieves me To see ye look so sad; now goodness keep ye From troubles in your mind.

Gos. If I were troubled, What could thy comfort do? prithee Clause, leave me.

Ger. Good Master be not angry; for what I say Is out of true love to ye.

Gos. I know thou lov’st me.

Ger. Good Mr. blame that love then, if I prove so sawcy To ask ye why ye are sad.

Gos. Most true, I am so, And such a sadness I have got will sink me.

Ger. Heaven shield it, Sir.

Gos. Faith, thou must lose thy Master.

Ger. I had rather lose my neck, Sir:  would I knew—­

Gos. What would the knowledg do thee good so miserable, Thou canst not help thy self? when all my ways Nor all the friends I have—­

Ger. You do not know Sir, What I can do:  cures sometimes, for mens cares Flow, where they least expect ’em.

Gos. I know thou wouldst do, But farewell Clause, and pray for thy poor Master.

Ger. I will not leave ye.

Gos. How?

Ger. I dare not leave ye, Sir, I must not leave ye,
And till ye beat me dead, I will not leave ye. 
By what ye hold most precious, by Heavens goodness,
As your fair youth may prosper, good Sir tell me: 
My mind believes yet something’s in my power
May ease you of this trouble.

Gos. I will tell thee,
For a hundred thousand crowns upon my credit,
Taken up of Merchants to supply my traffiques,
The winds and weather envying of my fortune,
And no return to help me off, yet shewing
To morrow, Clause, to morrow, which must come,
In prison thou shalt find me poor and broken.